


Smith Returns

by 2Nienna2, CateWolfe



Category: Smith of Wootton Major - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adventure, Aging, Gen, Minor Injuries, Past Smith/Nell, Post-Canon, Referenced past character death, TRSB20, Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020, Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:20:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26210089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Nienna2/pseuds/2Nienna2, https://archiveofourown.org/users/CateWolfe/pseuds/CateWolfe
Summary: An elderly Smith returns to Faery and is sent by Alf to find a special fruit for an upcoming feast.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 9
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	Smith Returns

**Author's Note:**

> The fic is by 2Nienna2. The lovely art, which is embedded below, is by CateWolfe. CateWolfe also beta-read and gave advice throughout the process. Thank you so much!
> 
> Many thanks to [bunn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunn/pseuds/bunn) for beta-reading! Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Smith sat in his garden watching the bees buzz among the flowers. It was a cool autumn day, so he was wearing a long coat and sitting on a thick blanket, with just a bit of it wrapped around his waist. His son Ned had brought him a mug of tea a few minutes ago and then returned to work, so Smith was left alone to enjoy the evening. It was peaceful in the garden. 

He thought back to how, just a few years ago, he had taught Ned everything he knew about the craft of smithwork. He had taught him how to be attentive, how to search the land high and low for rocks containing precious ore, and how to sever it from the rock, piece by piece, not letting a single shard go to waste. He had taught how to heat the metal until it was pliable and soft enough to yield to one’s will. And then he had taught how, slowly and carefully, one can shape it into practical delicacies that delighted all with their beauty and inventiveness while never losing their strength. 

_He was a good student. A very good student indeed._ Ned now ran the smithy entirely by himself, and he was doing very well, slowly but surely gaining a following in his own right.

Smith took a sip of his tea and then leaned his head against the chair. His mind started to drift towards Nell.

_Nell…_

It had been almost six years since she died. He still remembered their last day together, holding close to her in bed, the way she smiled at him. The image stayed in his mind for a moment longer before he realized, _No, that’s not quite right! That’s not what her face looked like! That crook of the cheek… it’s all wrong!_

His muscles tensed and his face crumpled, but never gave way to tears. 

Smith closed his eyes and breathed for a minute, shaky at first but steadied to… if not exactly calm, certainly collected breaths, each one carefully placed. Nell had loved to walk down the paths into the hills in the cool bright mornings… Maybe it was actually something of a blessing that Faery had been closed to him for Nell’s last twenty or so years. God only knows how much time he spent away from her before. Nell was always gracious, and he could never regret his adventures (and certainly not the look on his family’s faces when he retold them,) but, all the same. He had missed so much of what was ultimately a finite resource. 

Smith thought, _Perhaps everything is, in the end. And I should just be grateful for all that I got, the ways it shaped me. The fact that it doesn’t end with me. It didn’t begin with me either. I’m just one part of an endless cycle._

Somehow, that took a weight off his mind, at least for the moment, and Smith opened his eyes, gazing again at the few bees that still remained among the flowers. His body was tired now. It ached in ways he never would have understood before. He couldn’t move half as freely as he used to. He imagined it wouldn’t be long before he joined Nell. But still, the world was so beautiful. When he was younger, he had thought there would come a time when he was ready, when he felt fulfilled and finalized, but if there was, it hadn’t come yet. There was still so much he yearned to see, such endless variety and majesty in the world. 

_I hope there’s something out there. Please, please, please… I can’t be done._

His mind now wandered to his first time in Faery, when he was just a young man, wandering into the woods with a star on his brow. A young man with so much ahead of him he hardly could have borne it, had he known. Smith imagined that if he could have somehow felt the full weight of his future, the wonder and the terror and the peace and the sharpness and the splendor, he would have fainted from the mix of fear and exhilaration and overwhelm. 

Smith watched the flowers and the grass and the tree and the insects, the small world around him that he had planned but had really only been a partner in the creation of, until his eyes grew heavy and he drifted off into a nourishing sleep. 

It was many hours later when he was woken by the gentle sound of his son’s voice, singing to him that it was time for dinner. (For it had long been a family tradition to sing each other awake.) Smith walked inside to find the table set with venison and kale, a simple but hearty meal. 

After he finished the first bite (which took quite a while) Smith asked Piper, Ned’s wife, “How did your day go?”

“Oh, quite well,” said Piper. “I had a moderately sized crowd, but I earned a good bit of money as many of them were both rich and enthusiastic. It always helps to have both.” She had been about in the city all day, performing in the now revamped Great Hall. 

They continued to eat, trading stories from their (mostly separate) days, no matter how small. They eventually moved on to weekend plans, and decided they would spend a full day on a family picnic in the grassy area by the well, in front of the forest.

 _The forest_ , thought Smith. _The gateway to Faery…_ It was always at the back of his mind, this sharp longing. He couldn’t clear it away no matter how hard he tried, so he channeled it into his family and his garden, which he truly did enjoy. It’s just that it was always nagging at him. Faery had been his home!

When the last plate was cleared and washed, everyone else got ready for bed, but Smith said, “I am going on a walk to the forest. I’ll be back soon.”

He walked slowly and carefully, glancing up but mostly watching the ground so as not to trip. He could hear his steps echoing as he ventured down the stone path, and he saw a few candles glowing from inside houses. But most of all he heard the nighttime insects, chirping out their steady orchestra of overlapping sounds. 

Smith walked past the last few houses and followed the pathway as it curved into a small road. People would ride along this road, bringing goods and stories from other towns. Smith has often walked on it, to go on “business trips” or to collect materials for his smithy or just for the fun of it, but he’d never gone very far. It was said to pass through the whole country, this road. It was completely dark out here now, with only the stars and pale sliver of moon. He liked that when the moon was so small it magnified the stars tenfold; not as practical, perhaps, but certainly lovely to look at. 

Ah, here it was. The forest. Only a few feet away from the edge of town. _It’s really not visited as much as it should be,_ Smith thought as he stepped into the forest. _I never wanted anyone to come here before, as I was too afraid someone would discover Faery or -- somehow, someway -- destroy the barrier. And I certainly didn’t want anyone cutting down the trees! But what if we could meet here communally? If everyone could be taught to explore…_

He wasn’t afraid of night in the forest; not anymore. It simply allowed him a different view of a place that he had always valued as a gateway, but which he had also come to love in its own right. 

Smith walked a few hundred feet into the forest before settling down to observe. First; he listened. Now he could hear not only the insects, but also the river bubbling and winding somewhere deeper within, and the pervasive sound of creaking leaves, as if the animals were settling in. "Maybe they are," he thought with a grin. 

The grass was, if he was being honest, rather itchy. He knew he would have some rashes from it later, although if they were a genuine reaction or the result of his scratching, Smith could never tell. He pulled down his sleeves more thoroughly. 

The part he loved most of all was the trees. One particular tree that was right in front of him was covered in green lichen, the brightest thing in this grey light, which was growing in and around the large fissures of its bark.The roots were not _too_ big, but some were reaching almost straight down so Smith could tell they ran deep. As he looked, disjointed memories of the trees in Faery started to flood his mind, almost against his will, and he spoke them aloud;

"...The tree that was practically my first sight of Faery, suddenly there, blending in, and yet very obviously not from where I was before, what with the vibrancy of its purple-green leaves and the way the branches reached across nearly the entire sky.

...The trees that served as landmarks on my journey into the heart of Faery, gradually thinning and changing as we moved away from the humid sea air, no less beautiful but different, taller and less outreaching, clumped along the edges rather than taking over or overflowing, as the mountains became the main agenda. And then deep in the mountains, some of the trees were lighter, wispy yellow-y things blown about by the breeze that nonetheless held their own.

...The birch that unwilling sacrificed its leaves for me, and oh, the tears that ran down its face (and soon mine) in great droplets. The deeply uncomfortable feeling that took hold in me of sorrow and guilt, so that I didn’t return for many months."

Smith felt himself moving closer to the tree in front of him, and as he touched it it wrapped him in bark as the world spun. Smith tried to scream aloud but the sound was lost in his throat, and in the hustle-bustle of the wind. Tighter, tighter, faster, faster, until suddenly he could breathe again and the world was mercifully still. Smith opened his eyes, which he had not even realized he had shut. It was not yet dawn now — _not yet dawn?_

Smith took in the overarching branches, the animals looking at him tentatively, the different landscape and vividity and, most of all, the feeling that ran through him, and he knew. His terror was replaced by such joy he began to sob. He never thought he would be here again. His body was wracked by deeply cleansing healing joy like being washed by warm rain. At last! His head was starting to hurt from clenching up but he didn’t care. Giddy with excitement he ran through the grass, reaching out to touch everything, sobbing and staring around as he ran. 

After a few minutes he stopped in his tracks. _Am I dead?_ he thought. 

_No, I’m not,_ came the immediate, assured answer from within him, although he couldn’t say how he knew. _I was indeed happy, but my longing for this place was always in the back of my mind, never gone, only transformed. So Faery answered, taking me back in the only way it could. But it’s not probably not forever. That’s usually the way of things. It’s one last journey, if not to satiate my longing, to give it a richer framework to be stretched upon, recent memories and wonders to fill all its corners. For longing is it’s own kind of joy, but right now, in this moment, I am here, and that is something I never thought I could have again._

Smith heard a rustling behind him and turned around in a hurry. And there he saw Alf — _no, the Faery King,_ Smith corrected himself. 

“Alf is fine,” the King interrupted his thoughts. “It’s what you know me by, and besides, just because one has a larger identity doesn’t make the small ones any less important. I‘m glad that you’re here. I wasn't sure if you’d turn up.” 

“Do you mean to say that you _didn’t_ plan for it? You didn’t send for me?” said Smith.

Alf, whose figure was still as thin and unassuming as always, gave a hearty laugh.

“Well, yes and no.”

Smith was confused, and from Alf’s expression, looked it. 

“I didn’t send for you. But I was aware of your desire to return. How could I not be! It spread so strongly about you, coating your actions and following your trail (for still I visit your village, though not in any form that you would recognize.) And I have been planning for a Great Feast celebrating our contact with your village. So I made a few tweaks for time, laid a few thoughts, made sure everything aligned properly. But the force that pulled you in was not mine. Whenever a soul deeply longs for Faery, Faery responds. The response can take many different forms, (and it’s unfortunately not alway benevolent.) In your case, likely because you have been here before, Faery chose to grab you and pull you fully in. For someone else, it might come as a dream, or an idea, or a momentary flash of understanding.”

Smith had been dutifully listening, but as Alf went on he became distracted. For there were butterflies flitting around Alf, landing on his face and in his hair and on his clothes. Each was a solid color — Smith spotted a red, and a pink, and a white — but each individual butterfly was a different shade to the next. Furthermore, each had a color so vivid and rich it appeared to be dripping. Smith thought that if his fingers were to brush a butterfly, they would scoop out a layer of vibrant color, like paint, that would be flung around in a spray as he moved. And then the still plentiful color that remained on his fingers could be painted on anything he chose, all while the butterfly remained completely unharmed. 

Alf had noticed Smith’s distraction, for he said, “Yes, you may follow them soon. They will lead you through the forest over there.”

Alf pointed, and suddenly Smith saw what he had somehow failed to notice before. Towards the horizon there was an enormous forest — absolutely enormous — in which he could see the trees, but in between was merely inky blackness. Complete darkness, so that there appeared to be nothing at all, just trees superimposed on a void. And the trees! They did not appear to have leaves at all, or if they did, they were enfolded with sunlight and honey. But even more interesting than the color, these leaves were segueing into clouds. They became more and more cloud-like the higher Smith looked, and seemed to break off into clouds leaving another set of leaves in their place. Smith could not for the life of him tell where the clouds began and the tree ended.

“How… how does the forest do that?” asked Smith. “Turn black in between, I mean, though it is in broad daylight.”

“It just bends the light to match its mood. You never _used_ to ask so many questions.”

“Oh. Very well then...” said Smith. “I suppose I’ve grown less starstruck and more curious. After all, I’ve had thirty years to let all my unanswered questions fester without any new questions to distract from them!”

Alf continued by saying, “The butterflies will lead you to the bush, over mushrooms and ground roots and creatures. Always keep your eyes at least partially at ground level, until you reach it. You will know it when you see it. Pull every vine off the bush and crawl inside of it, and you will find the fruit which shall be the centerpiece of our feast. Do you understand?” 

“Yes,” said Smith, barely able to keep the excitement out of his voice at the thought of a new quest to follow in the land of Faery.

“I will meet with you again in a couple of days. But remembers you are no longer under the star’s protection. I hope and trust the wisdom you have gained will be protection enough.”

“Just, one more question, sir. Why me? I’m an old man now; I haven’t been here in years. Surely others would be better suited?”

“Because you’re here, and because you could use an adventure. And because your enthusiasm might rub off on it, give it a special zest that the guests will be able to feel.”

“Well, thank you!” said Smith.

He looked back at Alf one more time, and then headed towards the forest. The grass grew taller as he went, and sharper. Just a few feet ahead, the grasses looked like tiny green mountains, but his legs parted them with ease and they bent like seaweed as he passed. 

Smith looked for the butterflies that would guide him, but as he walked he also saw little rabbits scuttling through the grass, and he smiled. The animals had been his closest friends in Faery so long ago. They were the only ones who didn’t inspire fear and awe, who weren’t so far above him, and they welcomed him gladly. He had spent many months just playing with or watching the animals. 

Soon the forest loomed, and Smith did indeed see the butterflies. He reached out to test if his earlier theory about the color was true, but the butterfly flew ahead before he could reach. Smith soaked in the brightness of the field for one last moment, and stepped into the forest.

Darkness. Complete darkness, although the butterflies were just vibrant enough to be seen, although they were faded and he had to strain his eyes to do so. Smith heard a stream that could be anywhere around him; the sound could not be pinpointed. Smith was reminded of when he listened to the forest in his own world before being taken away, which already felt like an eternity ago. The air smelled loamy, but with a hint of… he would know that smell anywhere. Somewhere in this forest there were sweet olive trees. 

Smith soon noticed that the trees were giving off a faint glow. As he walked the glow became stronger and stronger, and in this way the darkness was abated.

Now he could see that the ground was mostly covered in damp dirt, but there were patches of grass too, and lots of sticks arranged as if they were artfully strewn about, in just the right way so that your eye would catch and follow. 

Smith did indeed follow the sticks with his eyes, one way, and then another. He noticed that they created different trails. If you looked carefully enough, it was plain to see. But which trail to follow? Smith didn’t know. He had never been good at this type of trial. “What is it that sets them apart?” Perhaps… the one to his right was not quite as defined as the others, which could indicate it requiring a less delineated mind. Or it could mean it was battered by winds. Or it could be sending him, specifically, a message. “But if it was sending me a message, I’d expect it to choose something flashier than just messiness.” The path closer to the front of him — although really it curved and bent all around — could be promising. Unlike the other, it was almost _too_ neat. Suspiciously neat. Smith didn’t like the feeling of that one. Diagonally intersecting where he stood was yet another path. It had an unusual number of thick sticks and mushrooms. 

Smith just shook his head. His anxiety and annoyance was mounting. _I can’t choose!_ he thought.

Turning away from the disagreeable path, Smith closed his eyes and spun. The thick sticks one. As he went deeper into the forest, he belatedly wondered if following a path with big things was a bad idea. And, sure enough, trouble soon found him. The air grew thick and sappy, seemingly out of the blue. Smith tried to breathe but the sap-air coated his throat and his tongue, leaving him nauseous and faint. He grabbed on to the ground, trying to inch back. _What dreadful creatures live here, setting their traps?_ he wondered as his limbs grew limp.

When he was younger he might have had the strength to attack. He might even have woven some clever spell out of clothing or plant material, pushing back the air like it was the water in his arms at the lake. And of course, back then he had the star, which would ward away evil like fire against fire. But now he just could not… nothing. He was already exhausted from the day. The nausea overcame him easily.

It seemed he was not destined to know what lived there, however. For Smith was rolled onto his back by some unknown thing, pricked and pulled for bits of skin, and shoved away. Today, the Thing was kind. It already had enough food for days, and was merely looking to get a treat for its daughter. Smith noticed numbness spreading like ripples from the open cuts right before he passed out.

When he awoke, the sun was setting. He wouldn’t have known ‘cept for the fact that the trees glowed brighter, and through their branches he could see only small splotches of slightly brighter areas. His back had bright patches of bleeding areas that stung, but did not appear to be seriously injured. But all throughout his body Smith felt exhausted. It was like he had been woken straight out of the deepest sleep he had ever been in, and now all his limbs were groggy. He hardly wanted to move. _But I must, I must,_ Smith muttered to himself. 

Faery was dangerous, Smith remembered this well, although in the past he had mostly been shielded. But he had seen, out of the corner of his eye, things that he did _not_ like to think about. And he loved Faery all the same. Why was that? Perhaps it was because, in Faery, anything was possible. The good and the bad. Faery showed him things he never could have imagined. And it took his everyday world — towns, the trees, even the people — and it left them enchanted, so that even when he returned home a flicker of that wonder remained, and he saw everything in a more engaging light. And the things that scared him? Well, there were fears aplenty in his world anyway. Faery just brought them closer but, at least in the past, had never brought them _so_ close as to put him in harm’s way.

Smith shook his head. What was he doing wasting his time? The Thing could come back at any moment! (Not that there was any guarantee the rest of the forest was safer.) _No_ , Smith reminded himself. _There is. Alf sent me, and I’m sure he wouldn’t lead me astray._

Smith gathered his strength and slowly walked back along the stick path. He saw bushes of sky blue flowers, so he stopped to take a sniff. Heavenly! Milky and… a flavor he couldn’t quite place. It was spicy and musky and sweet all at once, almost like cardamom. Smith took one more big sniff, allowing the smell to fill what seemed like every emptiness in his body. Then he continued walking as the smell began to fade. 

He soon saw the butterflies up ahead, and with a sigh of relief began to follow them. Still, he wondered what would come next. And what would happen when he reached the bush, Smith realized. Surely there must be something guarding it. The path of the butterflies dipped and turned and swerved in a seemingly nonsensical manner. This made Smith even more sure that they were taking him to the correct place. It was _just_ like Faery to build such paths, and even more like Faery to make them invisible.

Smith walked for what seemed like hours. Just as he was about to take a rest (he could only hope some butterflies would stay behind to guide him) he saw the bush up ahead. It was large — at least four people could spread their arms across it and their hands would not reach — and it was covered in vines. _Absolutely_ covered.

Not sure what other action to take, Smith grabbed a vine and pulled with all his might. It seemed to stretch and stretch, pulling Smith back with it, but at last it snapped, leaving half of the vine still hanging out of the bush. “The fruit must be in the middle,” Smith realized. “The only way, like Alf said, is to first reach in and pull off any vines and leaves necessary and then, somehow, crawl through.”

So he began to pull, reaching deep inside. A thorn dug into his finger. Smith screamed. It was a deep snag too. He carefully tried to pull out his hand in order to assess it in the light, but it was attached by the branch by the thorn, stubbornly unmoving. If he tried to pull it out any further the cut would only get larger. Smith closed his eyes and reached in with his other hand, delicately rooted around for the thorny branch (at least— he hoped it was the right one,) found a spot that was smooth, and pulled it straight up while he pulled the hand that was stuck straight down. It stung, but it worked. 

Smith pulled both his hands out to assess. There was a nasty wound there— luckily it wasn’t too wide, but it was deep. Smith knew he had to clean it soon so it didn’t get infected. But for now he would have to make do with covering it. But with what? Smith looked around. There were some small leaves on the bush and in the trees, but he wondered if he could find anything better. He walked all the way around the bush and, in the back a few feet away, he found two elephant ear plants, with large leaves he could wrap around the cut. _Perfect!_ thought Smith. _And now how to tie it… Ah. The grass._ It was not especially long or especially sturdy, but it would have to do. Smith propped his injured hand up against the outside of the bush and used the other hand to wrap grass (which he first had to tie together) around it. The first few times he dropped the grass, and had to bend down and then get back into position. But at last he succeeded, and, being impatient from this lengthy diversion, was more ready than ever to find a way to reach the fruit.

Smith grabbed onto a vine, this time careful not to reach inside. He pulled and pulled, but, especially with his hand already injured, he could not get it to budge. After trying a few more vines, (and nearly falling over in the process) Smith gave up on clearing them. 

Assessing the bush once again, he didn’t see how he could make his way through the twists of vines and branches and tightly clumped little leaves. And it was dark in there — too dark to see. There must be another way to reach it. Underground? But just as he thought this he heard a great rustling and out came three nymphs, flexibly navigating their way in and out and around the branches. At least, they looked like nymphs. 

“Heeelooo,” said the three in what seemed like one long, echoing word, each nymph seamlessly picking up where the other left off. 

“We heard your questions,” said the nymphs in the same long, breathy, matter of fact manner. 

“We will lead you to the fruit. If…you correctly answer...our riddle. And this they spoke, one after the other:

_Alone, I fly through the forest._

_Trees are buffets; I strike at the wood until it breaks._

_Like a wordless melody or like a drum, my sound reverberates to find others like me._

_What am I?_

_Hmm,_ thought Smith. _It’s some sort of flying creature. A bird? But what bird breaks wood? Does it eat the wood? But then why would it be a buffet — buffets have multiple foods in them._

“A woodpecker?” guessed Smith.

The nymphs twitched. “ _Yyyou_ got it,” they said in a yawny, musical voice.

With no warning, the nymphs grabbed Smith by the legs and one arm, and pulled him inside the bush. Rustling, backward and forward, up and down. Fast. He wasn’t quite sure how he fit, but before he could attempt to analyze this, he was through. 

_Wow!_ There was more room on the inside than could be seen on the out. Smith saw the circular layer of thorny branches. Past that, there was plenty of breathing room and the ground was covered in bright green moss. In the middle there was… there was… well, it must have been the most beautiful tree Smith had ever seen! And Smith had seen a lot of beautiful trees. The bark had a reddish tint, and it looked very smooth, like oil paint or like butter, all while being full of rich creases that looked as if they’d been folded with care. The arms — for he didn’t see what else to call them — reached out invitingly in all directions, sometimes intertwining with other branches. 

The leaves were vibrant, even more so than the moss, and had a depth to them, like if you held them up to your eye you might see an entire universe existing on that one leaf. He had always loved to imagine things like the veins of leaves really being rivers, and the aphids that lived on the leaves really being very small people who boated merrily upstream and down each day to conduct their business. Or the bits of green stuff in water droplets actually being forests, with water-owls and water-squirrels too small to see. _Maybe I would see those things if I could look up close at this leaf,_ thought Smith excitedly. It wouldn’t be the first time his imagining had proved true. There was such a warmth to the leaves, like each carried its own sun, and yet a sun that was never too sharp or too shrill. None of these descriptions could truly do it justice, for it was unlike anything Smith, or most humans, had ever seen. The feeling it exuded was exceptionally peaceful.

And the fruit in the middle! It was hanging down low on its branch. It was large and oval shaped, with little indentations throughout. It was a pale yellow-green-tan color, and, apart from its size, looked shockingly ordinary in the setting. Smith could only wonder what was inside. There must be something to justify it being a part of such an extraordinary tree and landscape. But no matter. For now his job was to pluck it and bring it back to Alf.

The nymphs were tittering around Smith, but never quite speaking words — they would make sounds that seemed like they might, but which never evolved into such. 

Smith reached for the fruit, but it would not give. He twisted it one way for a full minute, and then twisted another. Before long, it had been unscrewed.

As soon as he held the fruit in his hands, two of the nymphs put him on their shoulders. Instead of bringing him out the way they came, they went straight up.

 _I didn’t know that nymphs could fly,_ thought Smith. _But then again, I don’t know that they’re nymphs, or even what a nymph is here._

Smith held on tight to the fruit while staring at the sky. He felt slightly dizzy looking around; the sky was too bright. And he had the discomfiting sensation that he was merely balancing and not held, one sharp turn away from falling. So Smith closed his eyes and squeezed himself tight. He stayed like that for what seemed like hours, never quite able to zone out or focus on anything other than his body in the air. He did get used to it though, and unclenched slightly, tried to enjoy the breeze on his cheeks.

And then he was dropped. A sudden and sharp sting. The fruit bounced in the air before landing back on his chest, thankfully not cracking. Once he recovered from the shock, Smith felt along his body and found that it was unharmed. He couldn’t have been dropped more than a few feet. 

He was in a shady clearing, with purple grass interspersed among the green. It seemed as safe a place as any, and Smith was awfully tired from the intensity of the journey, as well as, of course, the amount of time it had been since he last slept, so he put the fruit down next to him, curled around it, and fell asleep. 

He woke to the sensation of something tickling his feet. He saw that Alf was lying on the ground propped up by his elbows, holding a bundle of various grasses and swaying them back and forth across Smith’s feet. Smith watched Alf critically. “What are you doing?” 

“Oh, just preparing you for the feast. Tickling brings a particular kind of energy that you will find beneficial. Come!” said Alf as he scooted to Smith’s side, grabbed his arm, and began to lift him up.

“Not just yet!” said Smith. “Where are we going?” 

“We’re nearly there. Those nymphs took you awfully close. I must admit I was not expecting them to be there. I’m glad they chose to take care of you, in the end.”

“What was your plan, for me to just pull all those heavy, stone-stuck vines?”

“Well… yes. I’d forgotten how weak you humans are.”

Smith smiled indignantly, “I got it, didn’t I.” He was already feeling more comfortable with Alf than he had at the start of this journey, and of course much more than he had when he was young, because he could sense the shared history between them. 

And they walked through the field together, and through what looked to be a collection of hemlocks, until at last they reached a forest grove.

The grove was spotted with shadows that seemed to morph and change out of the corner of Smith’s eye, but steady when looked at straight on. Above him were hundreds of brilliant streamers in reds and oranges and golds, which, on the other side of the grove, went through the full spectrum and transformed into blues and greens.

“Where should I put this fruit?” asked Smith.

“Above the candles.” 

Smith walked up to the table — and it was a very long table indeed, spanning nearly the entire grove. It was made of a thick, tough-looking wood. Smith did not ask how it has been brought here, surrounded by trees growing close together as it was. The plates were all made of clay and painted in various shades of blue. The water cups were also clay, but remained in their natural burnt orange color. At approximately the middle of the table was a circle of candles, some on platforms, winding like a staircase to a clear bowl that was both above and surrounded by flames. Smith reached up, careful not to put his sleeve in the fire, and placed the fruit.

Not a moment later Alf called, “Smith? Can you help with the seats? They’re to your right.”

“Sure,” said Smith. “But Alf? Why is the fruit above the flames?” 

Alf shrugged. “It tastes better in candlelight.” 

“But...why?”

“I suppose because it’s more beautiful. Now get to the chairs.”

The chairs were spread looping around the trees, extending vertically into the forest. Smith figured he’d start at the front, so he grabbed the first chair he saw and dragged it along. He soon became lost in this mindless task, when he heard a dignified-sounding female voice.

“Hello. It is good to see your face.”

It was the Faery Queen, still looking as she had when they had danced together so long ago. But there was more… muchness to her face now; that was all Smith could think of to describe it. An inconsistent, up and down richness that made the whole of her stand out all the more for it. 

“As it is yours,” said Smith, remembering his manners and bowing slightly. 

“Are you excited for the Feast?” asked the Queen.

“Truth be told, I don’t know quite what to expect. But yes, I’m excited. I’m excited for anything here.”

“Anything?” the Queen asked teasingly. 

“Well, no. Certainly not anything. I most decidedly was _not_ excited about that creature I met in the woods!”

“Aah yes,” said the Queen mildly, apparently having gone back to examining the chairs or her thoughts.

The shade when they were in the forest was refreshing. Smith watched the field and the Queen. Guests were starting to arrive, each leaving a platter of food on the table. (Some nearly dropped theirs.) There was so much food, and it looked more varied than anything Smith had eaten in the entire rest of his life. 

Alf was setting out costumes in a piece of grass he had cordoned off. “These are for anyone who wishes to wear them,” he loudly proclaimed, although he himself was dressed modestly.

Smith took a look once the chairs were all set, and gasped at the sight. Each item was unique, but some common themes could be found. Everything — from jewel encrusted shawls to three layer gowns to shimmering dress pants — was here before him.

Beyond those were a variety of items that sought rather than to make their wearer stand out to give their wearer the ability to blend in, whether through being drab and grey or matching common surroundings. Some items looked like a piece of nature themselves. In fact, some even had growing things on them, such as the shirt covered in young grasses, all reaching towards the sun. One very precarious looking item had to be sat up and leaned against a tree. It was a jacket with pools of sweet smelling liquid, attached by metal to the shoulders, and flowers growing along it. Butterflies landed on it every few moments. Once Smith even saw a bird. He took note of its design, wondering if he could make something similar for his family. For the time being he took off his current coat and, careful not to let it spill, inched into the magnificent jacket. Then he went to talk to some guests.

There were some guests who looked perfectly human. Still more were there who looked almost human — Smith shuddered when he saw people walking around with no mouths. Turning sharply, he found a group of elves, who made him uncomfortable for an entirely different reason. These elves had the same intensity as the ones he had once stumbled upon rushing into battle, but today it was channeled into conversation. Smith turned again, finding some short, hairy humanoids mingling with — tree people! Smith just _had_ to talk to one of those. 

But at that moment the Queen rang a bell, and everyone headed for the table. Alf directed Smith to the seat across from him, right in the center. After a minute of noise and bustling as everyone got settled, the Queen said in her official sounding voice, “Let’s eat.”

And eat they did. Smith started with a generous helping of what looked to be sweet potato mash in front of him ( _ooh, it has rosemary!_ ) and then passed it along, piling a bit of everything until there were multiple layers in his plate. He had no idea what the majority of the dishes were, but they looked and smelled so compelling that he couldn’t resist trying them all.

Smith took a bite of some sort of grain in a sauce that was on the top layer of his plate — it was deliciously spicy and creamy. While he and everyone else was engrossed in their food, the Faery Queen began to speak, holding black strings in either hand that led to sound emitting creations on either end. Smith didn’t know they worked, but clearly they were effective. 

“Thank you everyone for coming.”

A few polite claps were heard.

“As you all know, today we celebrate three hundred years of direct, purposeful contact with the Other World. We have here a special treat — two ambassadors from that world!”

Alf gestured at Smith, who stood up, somewhat shakily. Tim, Nokes’ son, stood up as well. Smith hadn’t even noticed him before!

Alf clapped his hands. “Meet Smith and Tim, of Wootton Major.” 

Smith saw a tree-man watching him, mouth agape, and felt a stirring of satisfaction at that. 

“Hear, hear!” Tim nearly shouted. “To Faery!”

 _Hmm… he’s certainly enthusiastic,_ thought Smith. 

Tim’s cheeks were pink, and he shone _so_ brightly, which Smith knew of course was because of the star. 

_He’s Starbrow now,_ thought Smith, surprising himself with the sadness he felt at this notation. He had long resigned himself to the pallor in his face, the rustiness in his voice, the thinness of his hair, the pocks that marred his skin. It’s not like he had ever thought that much about how he looked, at least not consciously. But ever since the Feast when he was a boy, he had been the gorgeous one, the one who was touched, who surely would do great things. The fun of impressing people, and the expectations that everyone had of him had influenced every aspect of his life in one way or another, even before he found his way into Faery proper. Of course, he knew it was natural that he should look different now than he had before. But the loss of the star had made the change more immediate, the contrast more sharp, and thus the reactions, both of others and that Smith had had towards himself, cut all the more deeply.

Again he watched Tim, whom he hadn’t seen since he got married and moved to Wootton Minor some fifteen years ago. Smith still felt a slight pang in his chest to see someone so lively, possessing all the traits for which Smith had once been praised. ( _You have no reason to be jealous,_ Smith chided himself.) 

But then… his traits… they had never truly been his. Smith saw that now. Only borrowed. Smith suddenly felt very cold. _What am I, now that I am fading, like I have been slowly for the past thirty years?_ His neighbors (and random opinionated members of the community and his extended family) had pointed out his sudden ordinariness and comparative lack of energy many times at first. They had done so under the guise of humor, but Smith could tell they were serious about wanting to know what had happened, to which Smith, of course, could give no response. Eventually they stopped asking, and Smith settled into his new life in peace. His wife, thankfully, had gotten used to it much faster than the townsfolk, and was already so in love with him that it made little difference, in the end. Smith was intensely grateful for that. 

_I am what I’ve always been — my craft,_ Smith realized. _It’s right there in the name. And I should be grateful that my mind is still mostly intact, that I am still able to discover myself, beneath the Faery charm._ Smith started to cry slightly. He wasn’t upset so much as relieved. _And the people who love me,_ Smith thought. _I am the love of my family and my love for them._ Smith missed them all of a sudden, close together in that warm, breathe-easy world.

He looked over at Tim again. Tim truly had grown into a handsome young man, and, if his early exclamation was any indication, one who appreciated Faery and the gifts he’d been given. 

While Smith was thinking this, the Faery Queen and Alf had continued with their speech. Smith tuned in now, feeling somewhat guilty for getting distracted. It seemed they were just about finished, for the Queen was holding a knife over the fruit. She cut small slices which were put on plates and passed around the table one by one, until at last everyone had a piece.

Smith held up his piece of fruit. It was mostly pink inside, but streaked with little bits of orange, and he was surprised to find it held hundreds of little arils. He tasted one. It was juicy, and the perfect mix of sweet and sour, making his mouth feel refreshed. He ate a handful of arils at once. Even better!

When he finished it, Smith walked over to Alf.

“The meal was lovely. What happens next? Can I stay?”

“You can,” Alf responded. “But it would be permanent this time. If you stay, you cannot go back, unless as a shadow which can see and hear, but not speak or touch.”

Smith thought about this. He certainly didn’t want to leave his family. But, well, he didn’t want to leave Faery either! And Ned was more than capable as a smith. They were doing very well. They all were, Smith had to admit this. He would love to spend more time with them, and they with him. But they were fully grown, and had wonderful, full lives in Wootton Major. Now that Smith’s wife was gone and his job mostly passed down to his son, Smith didn’t. 

Smith’s family had always been his home, but Wootton Major had not, not in the same way Faery had. And with this he could still have the joy of watching them grow, alongside the adventure of Faery. But to leave them… Smith hated the idea of causing them grief. They would never know what happened to him, although Smith hoped perhaps they could guess. Maybe he could even leave them little hints of his visits to Wootton Major. And if he went home, what if he never got the chance to come back to Faery again? Smith didn’t think he could live with that. 

“Okay,” he said, voice trembling. I’ll stay.”

  
  


\-----------------------------------------

Smith walked through Wootton Major, silent and unseen to all the others, though he himself could hear the sound of the rocks and leaves on which he stepped. He saw Piper singing in the square, and followed her as she went to the market. There were so many people, and so much movement. He listened to people talking, watched them eat and purchase goods. He watched the people in the stalls too -- some were shouting out, and others were quietly creating, waiting for customers to come. He followed her as she walked along the path by the forest, and as she sat down and took a minute to breathe. He followed her as she went home. He watched his grandson learning to cook. He watched Ned in the smithy, crafting forks and spoons and a gate, probably for someone’s garden. He walked into his own garden and, feeling stillness for once, left a Faery fruit near the door. 

He turned towards Faery.


End file.
